Страница 20 из 63
22
Barbara Krause, Tom Moran, and Nicholas Greco did not arrive back from Lancaster until late afternoon. Krause and Moran went directly to their offices in the Bergen County Courthouse and spent the next several hours preparing an affidavit that summarized the evidence gathered so far in the investigation. The affidavit would be submitted in support of their request that a criminal complaint be docketed and a search warrant be issued. The criminal complaint would charge Peter Carrington with the murder of Susan Althorp, and the warrant would authorize the search of the homes and grounds of the Carrington estate.
“I want them to scour the grounds with the cadaver dogs,” Krause told Moran. “How could they have missed finding her twenty-two years ago, when the scent would have been much stronger? Could he have buried her somewhere else and then moved her to the grounds when he believed they would never be searched again?”
“Maybe,” Moran said. “I was standing there when those dogs went through the area where she was just found. I don’t see how the dogs would have missed the scent, and I can’t imagine how our guys, and I include myself, would have missed freshly disturbed soil.”
“I’ll alert Judge Smith right now,” Barbara Krause said, “and request that we be permitted to go to his home at five o’clock tomorrow morning, so he can review the warrants.”
“The judge will love that,” Moran commented, “but it will give us time to assemble our team tonight and get over there with the warrant by 6:30 A.M., when we’re pretty sure Carrington will be snuggled in bed with his new bride. I’ll enjoy being his wake-up call.”
It was after two A.M. when they completed the paperwork. Moran stood up and stretched. “I don’t think we remembered to get any di
“We’ve both had about eight cups of coffee,” Krause told him. “I’ll buy you di
23
I don’t think I closed my eyes that night. Peter was so tired that he went to sleep immediately, but I lay beside him, my arm around him, trying to make sense of what I believed I had heard him say. Did he mean that events that he thought were nightmares were actually things that had happened while he was sleepwalking?
Peter woke at six o’clock. I suggested we go for an early-morning jog. I almost never get headaches but was feeling the begi
That was the last somewhat normal minute we were to have together.
The insistent pealing of the doorbell made both of us jump. We looked at each other; we both knew what was going to happen. The police were here to arrest him.
It’s crazy what you do when something catastrophic happens. I ran to the toaster and grabbed the toast as it popped up. I wanted Peter to eat something before they took him away.
He shook his head when I handed it to him. “Peter, you may not get to eat anything for a long time,” I said. “You had almost nothing yesterday.”
The door chimes were echoing through the house, and we were talking about food. But he did take the slice of toast from me and began to eat it. With the other hand he refilled his coffee cup and, hot as the coffee was, began to gulp it down.
I ran to open the door. There were at least six men and a woman standing there. I could hear the sound of dogs barking from inside one of the fleet of cars and vans parked in the driveway.
“Mrs. Carrington?”
“Yes.”
“I am Assistant Prosecutor Tom Moran. Is Mr. Carrington here?”
“Yes, I am.” Peter had followed me into the entrance hall.
“Mr. Carrington, I have a warrant authorizing the search of the houses and grounds of this estate.” Moran handed it to Peter and then continued. “You are also under arrest for the murder of Susan Althorp. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to have an attorney present while you are being questioned. If you choose to answer questions, you can stop the questions at any time. I know you can afford an attorney, so I won’t go into the details of having an attorney appointed by the court to represent you.”
Intellectually, I had known since yesterday that this probably would happen. But to anticipate something, and then to see it actually take place, is the difference between nightmare and reality. Two detectives walked past me to stand on either side of Peter. Realizing what they were going to do, Peter gave me the search warrant, then brought his hands forward. I heard the click of the handcuffs. Peter’s face was dead white, but he was calm.
One of the detectives opened the front door again. It was clear that they were going to take Peter away immediately. “Let me get his coat,” I told Moran. “It’s cold out.”
Jane and Gary Barr had just arrived. “I’ll get it, Mrs. Carrington,” Jane said, her voice trembling.
“Where are you taking my husband?” I asked Moran.
“To the Bergen County Jail.”
“I’ll follow you in my car,” I told Peter.
“Mrs. Carrington, I would suggest you wait,” Moran said. “Mr. Carrington will be fingerprinted and photographed. During that time you will not be allowed to see him. An arraignment before Judge Harvey Smith is scheduled for three P.M. this afternoon in the Bergen County Courthouse. At that time, bail will be set.”
“Kay, call Vincent and tell him to be ready to post bail,” Peter said. As the detectives urged Peter forward, Gary Barr put a coat over his shoulders, and Peter leaned down to kiss me. His lips were cold on my cheek, and his voice was husky as he said, “Three o’clock. I’ll see you there, Kay. I love you.”
Moran and one of the detectives went out with him. When the door closed behind them, I stood there, unable to move.
The atmosphere changed. There were at least six detectives still in the foyer. As I watched, all but the female officer put on plastic gloves-the search of the house was begi
“I’ve got to call Vincent. I’ve got to call the lawyers.” My voice sounded odd to me, low, but shrill.
“I’m Detective Carla Sepetti,” the officer said pleasantly enough. “I’ll need the three of you to stay together, and I’ll stay with you. If you wish, we can wait in the kitchen until they are finished searching the rest of the house. Then, we’ll have to move. They will want to look through the kitchen, also.”
“Let Jane fix you something to eat, Mrs. Carrington,” Gary Barr urged.
Food is perceived to be a comfort, to give strength in time of trial, I thought wildly. They’re trying to feed me for the same reason I shoved a piece of toast at Peter. I nodded and walked with the Barrs down the long corridor to the kitchen; Detective Sepetti was right behind us. We passed Peter’s library. Two of the detectives were there-one of them was pulling books off the shelves, the other rummaging through his desk. I thought of how content Peter had looked that day less than four months ago when I sat in that room with him, admiring its ambiance.
In the kitchen, I tried to drink a cup of coffee, but my hand was trembling so much that the coffee spilled into the saucer. Jane put her hand on my shoulder for a quick second as she removed the saucer and replaced it with a clean one. I knew how much she loved Peter. She had known him since he was a motherless boy. I was sure her heart was breaking, too.